


free

by orphan_account



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Bipolar Disorder, Canon Compliant, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Relationship Study, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-29
Updated: 2017-01-29
Packaged: 2018-09-20 17:40:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9502769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: And it's unhealthy, believing in some kind of fucked-up fairytale in which Mickey doesn't end up running away. Life isn't a fairytale, and Mickey certainly isn't a prince – Mickey has dirty clothes and blood in his mouth and the eyes of a stray dog. But he's there now, with him, sitting under the bleachers – their place, their secret, their home – and he's breathless and raw and as honest as he can be.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place between late series two and the end of series four. 
> 
> Thanks to my dear friend [ dellsey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dellsey) for beta-reading - she's awesome.

It's hot outside, and Ian is alone. This room hasn't been empty for God knows how long.

Usually, when he comes home, Carl's already in his pajamas, Fiona's putting Liam to sleep throughout the following hour and Lip comes and grabs some of his stuff before leaving if he doesn't sleep there. Now it's three in the afternoon, Carl's in school, Fiona's taking care of Liam with V, Lip is wherever he is now, and Ian can't remember the last time the house's been so quiet since the summer began. School had started now, but it's not like he gets to be here a lot during the day – because usually, when he comes home, it's after an evening spent hanging out with Mickey in places where nobody could see them. Ian got used to that.

Mickey's in juvie now, and Ian's skipping school.

And he is alone.

The bitter taste of smoke on his tongue reminds him of hot evenings – nights, sometimes – spent sitting on the grass, opening beer after beer, sharing cigarettes and having sex under the bleachers. He got used to the rush of adrenaline in his body everytime they would unbuckle their belts in the back of the shop, to Mickey's grin just before he would put his pants down, to the sound of Mickey's laughter whenever he decided that it was ok to drop the barriers for once. He got used to that.

His mistake.

He still wonders what will happen once Mickey comes back from juvie. He could consider “you're just a warm mouth to me” like a goodbye, but he could get used to that, too. Being a good fuck, and nothing else.

“Hey man,” Lip says when he enters the room. “What are you doing here?”

“Well, I live here,” Ian says. “Which isn't your case anymore, apparently.”

Lip opens the wardrobe. “Yeah, just forgot some stuff.” Ian wants to ask him when he's gonna come back, if he's gonna come back, because Lip's a grown ass guy now but he's still Ian's big brother and Ian needs to talk, these days, even if it isn't about him, he needs to talk about anything. He wants to tell Lip to talk to Fiona, because hell, she wouldn't say no to him coming back, even if he doesn't go to school, even if he's been gone only one day. He doesn't. “Careful with the smoke,” Lip says. “And open the damn window. Fiona's gonna get mad if it still smells when she puts Liam to sleep.” And then, with a few more clothes and bags of weed in his bag and a “see you later, man”, Lip is gone.

And Ian is alone.

 

*

 

The day after and all the days that follow, he still expects to see Mickey everytime the doorbell rings at the store.

He doesn't.

 

*

 

Monica is not the first person that would have come to his mind if he had to chose someone to talk about it – someone else than Lip. But Monica's here, Monica seems fine, and Monica wants to listen. So he talks about it. And she takes him out, and they go to a club, and they dance, dance, dance. When they go home, Ian collapses in his bed, music still vibrating in his ears and mind dazed by the drinks his mother bought him. He doesn't stop himself from thinking about Mickey. He dreams about blue eyes and drunken kisses. He's the best he has felt in weeks.

 

*

 

Then, Mandy tells them the baby growing inside of her is her father's.

Then, Lip finds out that the baby that was growing inside of Karen isn't his.

Then, Monica slits her own wrists open in the kitchen on Thanksgiving.

Ian doesn't get to think about Mickey a lot for a while.

 

*

 

One day, when Mandy and Lip are out somewhere and the kids are sleeping, Ian finds himself in the kitchen with nobody else than Fiona, hair tied and pajama shorts on, making herself some herbal tea, something she does when the day has been particularly long.

“Be careful when you get in your room,” she says. “Spending another thirty minutes trying to make Liam fall asleep is something I'd rather avoid.”

Ian opens the fridge to find a half-emptied bottle of milk and makes himself cereal. It's 10pm. “Understood,” Ian says.

Fiona turns to him, a steaming mug in her hands. “Sorry,” she says, and she sounds tired, she sounds so tired. “I'm always like, ordering you all around, telling you what and what not to do, asking you for a hand to pay the taxes.” She takes a sip. Ian spills the milk over his cereal – not too much, because there has to be some for the kids tomorrow morning, and next groceries aren't before wednesday. “I feel like we haven't had a real conversation in ages. I'm so busy trying to be a mom all the time I forget to ask you about yourself.”

“Hey,” Ian says. “You're doing a great job. I don't think I'll ever thank you enough for that.”

Fiona chuckles. “I wasn't – trying to get the attention on me or something.”

“Yeah, but y'have the right to.” Ian comes closer to her. He puts his bowl on the counter and slides an arm behind his sister. “You deserve a fuckin' medal.”

Fiona's head falls on his shoulder. “I'm proud of you, y'know,” she says. “For always persisting, in everything you want to achieve. For never giving up.”

“Well, I've had a good teacher.” He can feel her smile. When she gets her head up, he knows he was right.

“So, how are you?” she says. “Tell me about your life. I know about Lip's without even having to ask him. How come you're so secretive?”

Ian grabs his bowl. “There's nothing to say,” he says, and it's the biggest lie of his life. There's a lot to say, and maybe it would get easier to cope with if he talked about it – _actually_ talked about it, not the few excerpts he gives to Lip when he asks him about it. Maybe Fiona could listen to him, maybe Fiona would be happy to be a good sister, this time, not a good mom.

“Oh, come on,” Fiona says, throwing a weak punch in his shoulder. “You spend way too many nights outside to have nothing to say.” He thinks about summer nights and blue eyes and the taste of tepid beer. He remembers those nights haven't happened in a long time. “You have any boyfriend?”

“I don't know,” he says. He decides Fiona already has too much to think about for him to bring on the details. He would have to mention that he's having sex with her boyfriend's father, if he had to tell the whole story, and that's probably not something she wants to know. “It's complicated.”

“We're Gallaghers,” Fiona says. “It wouldn't be us, if it wasn't complicated.” Suddenly, Ian realizes that Jimmy-Steve isn't here.

He wishes he could go against that, but he can't. “It is how it is,” he says.

It is how it is.

 

*

 

On New Year's Eve, Ian asks Mandy if she's ok. He feels like he doesn't ask her about herself enough, like he hasn't taken care of her like he should have. Not like Mandy would let anyone take care of her, anyway.

When she had told Ian about the baby being her dad's, Ian just asked her why Terry thought it was him. He doesnt know why he said that, still blames himself for telling her she was allowed to cry on his shoulder. He had been afraid to do so, at the time, because Mandy was looking at him like she was going to stab him if he tried. In retrospect, Ian still thinks that her eyes were asking for help, after all.

“Are you ok?” Ian says. They're sitting on the roof above the porch. Jimmy-Steve is setting fireworks with the kids. Ian can hear Fiona's voice from the porch, under them, saying something about preventing Carl from setting everything on fire.

Mandy exhales smoke. Her nails and eyes are painted in black. The stare she gives to him would feel like a stab in the chest to anyone who doesn't know her as much as he does. “Where the fuck is that coming from?”

Ian shrugs. “Can't a guy just ask how is best friend is doing?”

Mandy looks away, finding interest in what's going on downstairs. “I think your brother is actually gonna burn somethin',” she says. But Ian doesn't stop looking at her. She frowns again when she notices. “I'm fine,” she says.

“Ok,” Ian says. He doesn't talk about the abortion, or Terry, or anything.

“Really, I'm fine.” Her voice has softened, now, her eyes are dropping barriers. She reminds Ian of her brother, the few times he allows himself to talk openly – even if usually, it's when he's had a few. “Don't worry 'bout me,” she says. “How are you? It's been long I haven't heard about your casual affairs. How's your boyfriend?”

“He's not my boyfriend,” Ian says, because it's true. “We kinda split up anyway. He isn't in town at the moment.” After all this time, Ian wonders how come Mandy never guessed about him and Mickey. Maybe she has. Mickey doesn't want her to know because _she can't keep her motherfuckin' mouth shut_. Mickey doesn't want her to know, because he doesn't wanna die.

After months of not seeing him, Ian still doesn't know if he's forgiven him for what he said, but in retrospect, Mickey has so much reasons to be scared – Ian can't really blame him for that. They'll have to talk about it when he sees him again. If he sees him again.

“Well, the bastard doesn't deserve you then.” Mandy hands him the cigarette and grabs the beer she had left next to her. “You just have to find yourself someone better to fuck.”

Ian laughs. The smoke feels hot in his throat. “I'll try that, thanks.” And Lloyd is a good fuck, sure, but nothing in this relationship sounds like long-term to him. Not like anything in his life does. He wonders when he started believing that good things could last, and this idea should have been erased from his mind since the last time he's seen Mickey anyway. “That's gotta be one of my resolutions this year,” Ian says, grabbing his own beer to take a sip. Beers and cigarettes always bring him back to summer nights with Mickey. It's stupid. It's not summer, and it's not even the same goddamn beer. “You got any?”

“Nope,” Mandy says, taking the cigarette back. “I never do that. I'm just gonna feel like shit if everything I said didn't happen.” A shiver seems to run down her spine. She's wearing one of Lip's old coats, too tight for his shoulders that have grown too broad, but a little bit too large for Mandy's skinny stature. “Don't need more disappointment in my life.”

 

*

 

Twelve minutes later, they're downstairs, in front of the house, doing the countdown with everyone. There are fireworks, and the garden isn't on fire. Ian hugs his sisters and his brothers, one by one. He thinks he sees stars in Fiona's eyes.

Mandy pecks him on the cheek after giving a kiss to Lip. She hugs him. Mandy isn't good to talk, but Ian knows what that means. _Thank you_. “Happy New Year, you big gay twink.”

 _Thank you_.

 

*

 

Ian often happens to wonder why he always ends up sleeping with people who can't be with him.

“Don't you have a wife waiting for you?”

Lloyd hands him a cigarette and the lighter. He's beginning to know Ian a little bit too much. Ian doesn't know if he likes it, but he lights the cigarette anyway. “I told her I was going for a drink with my co-workers,” Llyod says. “And I don't think she's waiting for me anyway.” He lights himself a smoke, too. “You're just wondering about that now?”

“I was just thinking,” Ian says.

And it's not even about that. Lloyd can do whatever he wants – Ian doesn't want to be with him anyway, who cares if he can't.

When Lloyd kisses him, he remembers he's with him because he can't be with Mickey. And it's been months, now, but he still sees Mickey's face everytime he fucks other guys, whether it's Lloyd on the mattress of an expensive hotel or strangers in the bathrooms of a gay bar. He hasn't forgiven Mickey, doesn't know if he will.

He'll still run back to him when he comes back.

Fiona's probably right – it must run in the family. _It wouldn't be us, if it wasn't complicated._

 

*

 

Turns out that Mickey comes back earlier than expected, and Ian doesn't have to run to him.

“Man, that was good,” Mickey says, after. “Missed you.”

“You did?” And it's unhealthy, believing in some kind of fucked-up fairytale in which Mickey doesn't end up running away. Life isn't a fairytale, and Mickey certainly isn't a prince – Mickey has dirty clothes and blood in his mouth and the eyes of a stray dog.

“Yeah man.”

And he's there now, with him, sitting under the bleachers – their place, their secret, their home – and he's breathless and raw and as honest as he can be. Right now, that's everything Ian needs to be happy.

 

*

 

Mickey comes back at the Kash & Grab, and everything goes back to normal. Life is life, and Mickey is Mickey – Mickey isn't his boyfriend, Mickey isn't a _fag_. But Mickey is jealous, and he still kicks Lloyd's ass after following Ian to one of heir dates, and the shivers Ian gets from the run that follows give him goosebumps and a stupid grin on his face.

 

*

 

Mickey kisses him. It's short and messy, so shy it's rough.

He gets shot in the ass ten minutes after. Ian's lips still tingle, and it doesn't matter if it's in his head, because Mickey kissed him. Mickey is bleeding in the car, still swearing and shouting _._

Mickey kissed him.

 

*

 

Not long after he had told his brother about his relationship with Mickey – whatever it was then, whatever it is now – Lip asked Ian why the hell he would find Mickey attractive. Ian had laughed, because it was a fair question. He said something about Mick's nice eyes and his fairly muscular arms. He didn't mention how much he loved the thick tone of his voice, the spark of danger in his look, everything that made him wild and ferocious and savage and everything that made Ian believe that he was more than that.

On the second night Ian is supposed to spend where kids too young to be left wandering but too old to be taken by a foster family go, Mickey invites him for a sleepover. He calls it a “fuck you”. It's a sleepover. Ian has to hold himself from smiling too much.

And Mickey heats up some food that's not that bad, and they watch a Steven Seagal movie while talking about shit and drinking beers, and Mickey climbs on him at some point he didn't even register.

“We're doing riding now?” Ian asks, smug grin on his lips, hands on Mickey's hips.

Mickey takes his own shirt off. “I still have a bullet wound on the ass and I don't want you to make it worse,” he says.

Ian smiles. “Sure.” And Mickey gets up to take his pants off, too – he makes a weird face when his jeans slide across the wound, and Ian can't help but realize that it's the first time they're facing each other while fucking, it's the first time he's gonna see Mickey's face instead of wondering about what he looks like during sex. If Ian wasn't so scared, he would have asked earlier.

It takes him a few seconds to realize he better get undressed, too. When he's done, he's got nothing but a condom on and Mickey in his lap, again, looking at everything but Ian's face. “Help me with that,” he says, gesturing at Ian's crotch. Ian helps him, gets inside him, and Mickey slides down. “Fuck,” he says. “Shit,” he says. “Missed this,” he says. “Missed you,” he doesn't say – not this time. Ian hears him anyway. It's strange, how he always says that, even when it's only been a couple of days. Mickey misses him, maybe as much as Ian misses Mickey, and Ian's heart beats fast, fast, fast. He gets him, now, what he sees Mickey – it's obvious, fucking crystal clear.

Mickey kisses him for the second time ever – this time, there's nobody around. He kisses him, shameless, like there's no tomorrow. He tastes like beer and lemongrass and smoke. Mickey giggles – fucking _giggles_ , and everything is fine. Everything is so goddamn fine. Ian closes his eyes for a few seconds, making a wish. May this never end, he thinks. May they stay like this forever.

Ian comes a few minutes after Mickey, his hand still jerking him slowly. They're breathless. And Ian is happy.

When Mickey moves, it's to grab two other beers. “Shit,” Mick says. “We missed all the good parts.”

“What, this wasn't a good part to you?” Ian says in a fake outraged tone.

Mickey laughs. “Don't you dare comparing yourself to the great Steven Seagal, man.” And Ian laughs.

They watch the rest of the movie naked, each on one side of the couch, Mickey's thigh touching Ian's knee, Ian's foot touching Mickey's hip.

Everything is fine.

 

*

 

The morning after, Terry catches them. He bashes Mickey's head until he barely looks like himself, points a gun on Ian and forces him to watch a russian hooker rape his son, “fuck the fag out of him”. Ian sees, hears, even if he doesn't watch.

He gets out of the Milkovich house with blood on his face and the taste of vomit in his mouth – he pukes in their front yard, and nobody's gonna notice.

He wants to go back and kill Terry with his own gun. He wants to go back and take Mickey with him, run far, far away, find somewhere to crash and never be scared.

He is never going to be fine again.

 

*

 

He dreams about Mickey's eyelids covered in blood and the last look he gave him before it happened.

He wakes up with the ache of a bruise under his eye and the taste of blood in his mouth. He hopes he didn't cry.

 

*

 

“I didn't ask you, and maybe it's none of my business,” Fiona says. “But are you alright?”

Ian runs a hand through his hair – it still feels strange having it buzzed. Fiona touches her neck, above the collar of her shirt, plays wit the hem of her sleeves – her suit makes her look like a young mom, and Ian hates life for giving her no choice but to act like one. “Yeah,” Ian says. “Why are you asking that?”

“You've got a black eye and the look of a sad puppy.”

Ian almost laughs. _Almost_. “Got in a fight with a kid at the foster,” he says. He searches for a pack of cigarettes in his pocket. Remembers he can't smoke in there. “And I'm _not_ a _puppy_.”

Fiona laughs. Not almost. She laughs. It's nervous and messy and it almost sounds like a sob. “'course you aren't,” she says.

In another life, they aren't going to court for Fiona to be legally allowed to take care of them – they have proper parents, or not, but they get by. They spend summer days in the pool, they don't worry about covering charges – maybe they even go on a holiday, in another state, in Europe even. Fiona wears make-up because it's fun, not because she has to look serious and adult and older. Lip doesn't think twice about going to college or not, doesn't think about finding a shitty job to help with the taxes – Lip does whatever he wants. The kids take their time to grow up, Debbie doesn't have to pretend she's an adult when Fiona's not there. Ian still doesn't know what he's doing, but it's ok. Mickey loves him back and Terry doesn't exist.

He opens his eyes. He didn't realize he had closed them. “It's gonna be ok,” he tells Fiona. She looks at him, saying nothing. She looks like she might cry, but she won't – she's strong, Fiona. “You're gonna get it”, Ian says. “You're gonna have us.”

She hugs him. He still sees blood whenever he closes his eyes, but Fiona smells like the shampoo they all use at home and it's the closer to good he could hope feeling. “Thank you,” Fiona says.

“Thank you,” Ian says.

 

*

 

Ian decided not to tell Lip, because Fiona's trial was close and there was enough shit to think about for him to bring his own. Then Karen came back, and Lip had to keep his heart from being broken, and Ian had to keep Lip from treating Mandy like shit.

He's gotten time to think about it – the family still has to get by. Life went back to normal after they all came back from foster care and Fiona became their guardian, and normal meant getting up, going to work and spending the day at the register with nothing to do but to _think_. At one point, normal meant having Mickey around during work, having sex in the back when nobody was there and shotgunning beers at the stadium after their shift.

He's gotten time to think about it, and he can do that alone. He doesn't tell Lip, and he doesn't tell Mandy – “she doesn't need to know”, Mickey used to repeat everytime Ian asked if he could tell her.

Mandy doesn't need to know, and Ian doesn't tell her.

And so, Mandy tells him about Mickey's wedding.

Ian goes to see him and comes home with new bruises on his face, and it's not like he had expected it to go any other way.

“Are you alright?” Fiona asks. They're alone in the kitchen again, and she's sitting on the counter. It's been a little while, since the last time he's been alone with her.

“Yeah,” he says. He's got a hand around the bottle of milk and the other hidden behind his back. The bruise on his knuckles would have hurt less if they had hit Mickey's face instead of a wall.

“Sure,” Fiona says. Her eyes are soft. “You know that I don't believe you, right?” she says after a moment.

Ian shrugs. “I'm fine.”

“Sure,” Fiona says again. “Now, tell me what's going on. I know you're a grown ass boy and shit, but you gotta understand I'm getting worried.”

He takes a sip of milk. “There's nothing to be worried about.”

“With a bruise like that on your face, you're gonna have to be much more convincing than that.”

“Everyone in this house gets bruises.”

“Ian.” Her eyes are soft, and her voice is soft.

For a second, maybe less, he thinks about telling her about the long and complicated story of him and Mickey Milkovich, from when he still was with Kash to when Mickey's dad had ruined their lives. He'd tell her about how he wishes he could say that he finally breathes, when he's with Mickey, but that the truth is he can't, because it takes your breath away, being in love with a storm, and he'd tell her about how it doesn't matter anymore, because they've never been together and they'll never be anyway. “Relationship issues,” he says.

“Is he beating you?” Fiona says a little too fast. Her hair is undone, and she's wearing her shirt from work with sweatpants. Ian sees her, years before, sitting at the same place, when she was twelve and he was six and he saw his big sister crying for the first time because she was so tired. Fiona isn't crying, now.

“No,” Ian says, because he isn't a victim, because he could have hit Mickey back if he wanted to, because he wasn't scared. “No, no, don't worry. We had fights. I think it's over now. I don't know.”

“Wanna talk about it?”

He thinks about it, really. “It's ok,” he says, because that's the only thing he can do.

She looks at him, for a long time. Her eyes are soft. “Please,” she says after a while. “Please, take care of yourself,” she says.

“Will do,” Ian says.

Fiona's smile is sad.

He's never been that much of a good liar.

 

*

 

“Fuck,” Mickey grunts. “Fuck, fuck, _fuck_.”

Ian's got Mickey's legs hooked around his waist, and his back hurts. They found some kind of surface to lean on, conveniently, and Ian is grateful – he doesn't know if he could have had it face to face if they didn't. He likes Mickey's back too, likes him on is fours or facing a wall, but he needs this, now, needs to see him. Mickey's grip on his neck is strong, tightens everytime Ian's dick hits him just _there_ , and Ian should know by now that this is the very last time, because Mickey's not gonna cancel his goddamn arranged wedding and Ian's not gonna keep waiting and waiting and waiting, but Mickey's breathing words in his ear and keeping him as close as he can and _kissing him_ , and here's the fucked-up fairytale again, here's Ian believing in things he can't have.

“Missed this,” Mickey says. “Missed you,” he says. Ian wishes that Mickey missing him was enough to give Ian the possibility not to leave.

Ian feels Mickey's jaw tighten, knows he's biting his lip not to make too much noise – he always does that when he's coming, whether or not he's been loud during the act or not. He fucks him harder, hopes they make noise – if they get caught again, they'll run. They'll be free. Ian buries his face into Mickey's neck, buries his fingers into Mickey's thighs. He comes with half a shout, and Mickey is too far gone to tell him to shut the fuck up.

Later, Mickey's words have sent him back on earth, but a bottle of vodka has helped him fly again.

“Jesus, Ian,” he can hear Lip say as he's puking on their way home. “Come on,” Lip says once he's done. “Take that,” he says, handing Ian a tissue. Ian tries to grab it, and while he manages to do so, he ends up putting it in his eye. Lip cleans his mouth for him.

Ian doesn't remember the rest of the walk. He gets his consciousness back once he's in his bed, with a bucket next to him just in case and Lip sitting on the edge, putting the sheets on him. He doesn't say a word, Lip, and silence makes Ian's head spin. “'m sorry,” Ian says.

Lip frowns. He isn't looking at him. “Shut up,” Lip says. “You don't have to be.”

“I do. Fucked your evening up.”

“Yeah, it's not like I was having a very good time anyway.” Ian wants to ask Lip what's wrong – he recalls him having an argument with Mandy before Ian started blurting out nonsense about Mickey and commies – but Lip talks first. “Why didn't you tell me anything?”

Ian burps. It's gross. “Doesn't matter.”

“That's what I thought too before you got wasted for that prick and started telling me how much you loved him.”

Ian laughs. “I didn't say that.”

Lip doesn't. “Yeah, you did.”

Ian stops. “Yeah, I did.” When Lip gets up, it's to look for a beer under his former bed. “There are some under mine,” Ian says, because Lip doesn't find anything.

Lip thanks him, grabs a beer, and sits back on the bed. “Why didn't you tell me?” Lip says again. His beer opens with a _psh_. “I didn't know it was – serious, with Mickey. Before that shit, I mean – the fucking wedding.”

Ian sighs. His stomach still feels weird. “You had your own shit going on.”

“Yeah,” Lip says. He looks sorry. Ian can't see his eyes. But he looks sorry. “What happened?” he asks after a moment of sipping his drink in silence. “You and him, I mean.”

“His dad caught us once,” Ian says. His voice is low and his words are mumbles.

“Holy shit,” Lip says.

“Yeah,” Ian says. “Forced him to marry her so his son wouldn't be a faggot.”

Lip throws the empty can to the trashbin – it lands next to it. “Holy shit,” he says again.

Ian pretends to be asleep until Lip goes away, and then he really is. He dreams about Mickey's fingers between his, kissing the ugly tattoos on his knuckles and watching the word burn from the rooftop of a building. Mickey's beautiful, and they're invincible.

 

*

 

Ian leaves. Mickey tells him not to – but he doesn't say anything else, just “don't”.

So Ian leaves.

 

*

 

The military does an excellent job at keeping him from thinking about anything at all – thinking is prohibited when you have to listen at shouted orders and stay focused in every situation, thinking doesn't even cross your mind when you go to sleep at night, because you're too goddamn tired and the only hope you have anyway is that you'll sleep fine on the rock hard matress you're laying on. Being the perfect little soldier is good. Not having to think is good. Taking orders is good. Taking orders brings some structure in Ian's mess of a life.

He tells himself he doesn't miss the mess until he tries to steal a fucking helicopter and runs, runs, runs, because the military does an excellent job at making sure insubordinate soldiers get in trouble, too.

He goes to Lloyd's place because it's the first thing he can think of, and because he doesn't want to go home yet – going home meant going back to normal, a new normal, and missing the old one.

“Ian?” Lloyd has round eyes and nothing but sweatpants on. Ian has a sweat-slick forehead and cum stains on his shirt. “What are you doing here?” Lloyd says, and then, “Jesus, you've changed a lot. How old are you now?”

Ian's breath is short. “Seventeen,” he says.

“Oh, yeah,” Lloyd says. “And, hm, as I asked, what are you doing here? How did you find where I was living anyway?”

Ian shrugs. “Convinced a guy to drive me to your old place if I gave him a blowjob.” Lloyd laughs, because it sounds like some kind of joke, and because he hasn't noticed the cum stains. “Then I asked your wife. She wasn't so glad to hear about you, but she softened when I called you an insufferable piece of shit. We had a nice chat. It was pleasant.”

“Yeah, I'm sure about that,” Lloyd says. “Come on, get in.” And Ian gets in.

He throws his dirty jacket on a sofa that's probably more expensive that his family's house, but Lloyd doesn't say a thing. He lets Ian sit on there and light himself a cigarette and put ashes all over the place.

“So,” Lloyd finally says. “What's up?”

Ian's hands are shaking, his head is spinning. The lights are beautiful, in this place. The room looks like a dream. “The guy I was in half a relationship with had to get married to a girl because his father wants him to be straight. Beat the shit out of both of us when he caught us. It's dumb, because I think we were starting to be a thing.” He feels great. “I used my big brother Lip's ID to get enlisted in the army because I didn't want to see him.”

“That's kind of excessive,” Lloyd says.

“Well, I've wanted to join for a while anyway. It was a good occasion.”

“And what made you quit?”

Ian exhales. The smoke is a sweet, sweet burn down his throat. “I tried to steal a helicopter and ran away.” Ned laughs again. Ian laughs, too. “That's a really nice place you've got. Love the lights –” Ian turns his head, “and wow, this view. This view's crazy.” That's the version of Chicago Southside kids don't get to see. Ian could eat the city whole. “Can I take a shower? I think I smell pretty bad.”

Lloyd chuckles. “Yeah, you do. Bathroom's over here.”

Ian's still smoking when he gets in there, and again, Lloyd says nothing. There's a huge bath with bright neon lights above it and a ridiculous amount of different soaps. He gets out of his clothes, stares at his reflexion in the mirror. His shoulder still got a bruise from last week, his hair is greasy, and his dick is hard.

 _God,_ he feels great.

“Hey,” he says through the half-closed door. “Wanna join?”

 

*

 

He calls Mandy the morning after.

“Oh my God, it's you!” Her voice is like a smile. Her smile is like a summer party. “You moron, why didn't you call earlier?”

“I'm fine, thanks for asking,” Ian says.

She laughs. “Fuck, how long has it been? How are the army boys?”

“Didn't really give it a taste. Won't have the occasion anyway – I kinda quit yesterday.”

“Ha, I knew it.”

“What?”

“That it wouldn't last.”

“Why?”

“You can't stand to be away from me because you love me too much.”

Ian smiles. “Yes, I do.”

 

*

 

When three weeks later, he sees Mickey for the first time in months, Ian has black make-up under his eyes and glitter on his shorts. He looks like he's changed, but Ian is pretty sure that it's the neon pink lights and the ecstasy in his system that make him believe that. Ian loves the fact that Mickey made his client go away, hates the fact that he missed him.

Ian dances on him like anyone else. Mickey tells him he can come crash at his place – Ian wants to, but he won't.

He still wakes up there the morning after.

 

*

 

Home feels great and he's mad at himself he didn't come back earlier. He wasn't ready for a new “normal”, but nothing has changed. This time, like any other time, getting back to normal is hugging his brothers and sisters, Carl asking him if he blew shit up and Fiona looking at him with worried eyes, Mickey on his knees, unzipping his pants and getting to work. His hair is longer, and Ian learns he likes to pull. Mickey hasn't changed, really – same face and same wild eyes and same way to suck cock like the end of the world is coming, except it's better now than ever, somehow. And maybe it's the drugs, or maybe it's just that Ian missed him, but he doesn't care, because Mickey takes him all in his mouth and he sees stars.

“Come,” Ian says. “C'me here.” He pulls on Mickey's shirt and licks the come off his chin. Their kiss is messy and desperate and full of untold secrets. They're ok. The last time Ian's felt that with him, they got black eyes and bloody noses and an unwanted wedding, but there's no Terry to stop them now, there's nothing to stop them. Ian would fight against the apocalypse to have Mickey like this for a few minutes more, and he doesn't know when he went back to these kinds of thoughts but he doesn't care, he doesn't care. “Turn over,” he tells Mickey once he's gotten him on the bed. “Pants off.”

Mickey raises an eyebrow. “I know you're always up for a second round, man, but you just came like, two seconds ago.”

“I got fingers.” Ian smirks. Mickey takes his pants off and turns over. Ian takes the lube from the drawer.

“Shit,” Mickey grunts. “'s cold.”

“It's always cold,” Ian says.

“It's been a while,” Mickey says, and Ian twistes his fingers, and “ _fuck_.” He doesn't say he missed him, this time, even if it's been months, but he's whispering _faster_ and _yes_ and _fuck_ again, and the grip on Ian's free hand is so strong it's close to breaking bones. He wouldn't have it any other way. He works him until he can't formulate a word, until his pants become too much and he has to stop breathing.

When Mickey comes, Ian kisses him on the back of his neck. He smells like hair gel and cold smoke and fire, he smells like teenage mistakes and hot nights and home.

 

*

 

This time, getting back to normal includes Mickey waking up next to him – sometimes on the floor, sometimes in his bed – and eating breakfast at the same table and getting kisses on his forehead when he's lucky, and Ian thinks that, maybe, things have changed. Mickey gives him rides to work and stays all night, keeps dirty old men to touch him like he touches him – Mickey kisses him in a gay club and goes to parties with him and tells people they're together.

And Ian is doing good – he's better than he's ever been. He can dance all night and go for a run the morning that follows, he doesn't even need the drugs clients give him to feel the thrill, and everything is beautiful from Mickey's face to the colorful lights in the club and the fucking orange sky.

Sometimes, he almost forgets the reason he left.

It doesn't last. His wife has her – _their_ – baby, Terry is going out of jail soon, and Mickey's scared.

It doesn't last.

 

*

 

“I don't know if you're supposed to do that, y'know,” Ian says while Kev is serving him another drink as soon as he's sipped the first one. “'m underage and shit.”

“Yeah, that didn't stop you to enlist, from what I've heard.” Ian plays with the rim of the glass. At the other side of the room, there's Mickey smiling at his father, the baby in his arms and his wife behind him. They look like a sick joke. Ian remembers the taste of vomit in his mouth from that time he left the Milkovich house, half naked and bloody-faced, with Mickey's eyes still piercing his and the scene on replay in his head. “I get why you left, now,” Kev says.

Ian raises his eyebrows. “You do?”

Kev shrugs. He's drying a beer jug with a towel. “Man, believe it or not, but I actually do have ears,” he says. Ian empties his glass. They don't say anything after that.

 

*

 

Ian is half outside when he hears banging on the counter and Mickey's voice over it.

Mickey says it.

There's a few seconds where nothing happens except them looking at each other and Ian's heart beating fast, fast, fast.

Terry goes crazy, after that. Ian takes off his jacket.

Beating the shit out of him feels even better than he imagined.

 

*

 

They walk home with their arms over each other's shoulders, sharing Ian's whiskey flask on the way. Ian looks up at the sky. The stars are fucking beautiful. He looks at Mickey, too – the crappy lights in the street make him look like a dream. It isn't a dream.

They clean each other up, removing all the blood from their faces with wet towels – Ian grunts, there and there, but Mickey never does. Ian wonders how much blood he had to wash off his face, how much towels were to throw out.

Ian still finds blood stains when he takes Mickey to bed – some that sneaked under his shirt, some that he just didn't scrub well enough because he was afraid to hurt him. He kisses the skin carefully, but he's pretty sure Mickey's lower lip hurts too when he kisses him on the mouth.

“Go easy, 'kay,” Mickey says once they're out of their clothes.

And Ian does. He holds Mickey's thighs around his hips, his hands not going anywhere else than there, or his dick – they'll have time for rough sex later. They have all the time in the world.

“Missed you,” Mickey says, and Ian notices that he's holding his hand, the one on his thigh. He takes it. Mickey's beautiful, with or without blood on his face.

“Missed you, too,” Ian says.

And they're free.

They're free.

 


End file.
